


Bal Masque

by crazywrite



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Genderbending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-10-05 22:53:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10319096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazywrite/pseuds/crazywrite
Summary: “I have a deal to make. You will perform my opera to my liking. I will be making sure that you follow all of my stipulations throughout the work. If you don’t . . .” She let the threat hang.“Well, let’s just say that you will be losing more than just a chandelier. Things that can’t be replaced.”





	

She felt exposed, far too exposed.

Perhaps it was the dress—a scarlet mess of taffeta and silk, gold beads adorning the bodice and train. The gold and scarlet twisted together to form a fiery panorama. Its plunging neckline was daring and revealed almost too much of her deathly pale skin. The dress was beautiful, there was no doubting that, but it gained far too much attention. Plus, it was cumbersome and required a godforsaken corset.

Her mask was also gaining attention. While most women preferred the more feminine  _ morretas _ and  _ gattos _ , her mask was a full-faced  _ volto _ with a realistic skull painted in meticulous detail. The pitch dabbed around her eyes made them spark in the candlelight. She was equally terrifying and alluring.

She had not been at the Opera Populaire’s  _ Bal Masque _ for two hours, and five men in various levels of sobriety had asked for her to dance. She’d declined all. She, the Opera Ghost, the Phantom of the Opera, the Angel of Music had better things than twirling in asinine patterns with a man that kept staring down her decolletage the entire time.

She had other things to see to on this eve of the new year.

The Opera had gone out all for this extravaganza she noted with a slight sense of disdain. The alcohol was of the highest caliber—distilled only in France, of course—and the food had been prepared by the finest chefs in Paris. Even though she ate so little, the sight of tables upon tables loaded with tiny  _ hors d’ orderves  _ made the hunger in her belly stir its head.

She bypassed the food for the alcohol was. She needed to be clear headed for tonight’s spectacular, but she needed something for her hands to hold. Even though she’d spent days planning the meticulous details of this night, there was a sense of jumpy fear that radiated in varying waves down her spine. She picked up a dainty flute of champagne from a passing servant, mostly to quiet her hands and forbid them from rubbing a hole in her dress in their nervousness.

The champagne tasted sweet yet dry, as champagne should, but the fizzy bubbles were slow on popping against her palate. No doubt it was somewhat stale from being in the unprotected air for a while. She drank it anyways, since it didn’t deplete her own winestock.

Wandering aimlessly, she found herself in the main entrance of the Opera. The staircase and all its gold embellishments had been polished to a glimmering sheen. The cherubs and muses adorning the bottom of the staircase seemed to bow to her for they knew how important she had been to their creation. As a matter of fact, she had protested at their addition. Garnier had been obstinate on the fact, however, and she’d had no choice but to concede to him. She smirked as she admired her work, proud in the fact that it was her touch in the slight curves in the gilded banister and the dappled marble of the staircase. The indignation of Paris’s upper classes would be a royal treat if they knew that almost half of their beloved Opera House had been designed by a woman. It would be the scandal of the century!

All around her, there was laughter and merriment. A small part of her wanted to join the crowd in their reckless enjoyment. But the gazes and whispers reminded that she was wanted nowhere. She sighed, pushed that hopeless wish deep down, and continued to wander She wanted to know if  _ he _ was here, and if he had brought  _ her _ .

The woman in the fiery red dress and the skull mask walked with a sense of dignified hurry. The stares that followed her were half curious and half disgusted. The dress she wore had exposed shoulders, so the pale, puckered scars were open to gawk at. She knew all too well that those scars, the phantoms of her abuse in the Gypsy camp, were what the people were staring at.

The memories of the past threatened to drown her in that moment, but she pushed the erratic fear down deep inside her. If she dwelled on that time, she’d have flashbacks and the night would end in dark dreams she never woke up from. She shook her head, dispelling the poisonous thoughts, and settled her focus on finding her dear student.

Two more rejected suitors later, she found him. He was talking with the managers. The two men’s faces were flushed with the rosiness of too much liquor. He looked completely sober, however. There was another figure with him, but she was hidden part way by his lanky form. She caught the glimpse of a slender wrist holding a pale pink _ columbina _ , complete with dyed feathers. The Phantom slipped behind a marble column to listen to their conversation.

The managers were gloating about their successes. “Yes, I agree this season was quite a success. Aside from those few mishaps, it went quite smoothly.” The manager grinned at her student. “And we wouldn’t have found such an amazing tenor.”

The other manager nodded in agreement. “Of course. After the chandelier,”—at this, they all looked up unconsciously at the ceiling—”all has been quite peaceful.”

The first manager nudged the second. “Perhaps the Phantom finally gave up. Perhaps she is rotting down in the cellars right now.”

Finally, finally, he spoke up. “No, I don’t think so.”

“You don’t?” one of the managers asked, one eyebrow high on his sweaty forehead.

“No,” he insisted. “She’s not dead. She’s planning something. Something big.”

Behind the pillar, she snorted quietly.  _ You have no idea what you’re getting into _ , she thought with a small sardonic smile. 

The female figure spoke during the awkward silence. Just the sound of her saccharine voice made the Phantom tense. “Well, when she does finally make her appearance, we’ll send for the gendarmes right away. Isn’t that right?” She blinked coyly at him. The Phantom’s gloved hand tightened on the champagne flute. If things had gone differently, it would be  _ her _ that he looked at adoringly and  _ her _ that he reached for at night.  

His nervous gulp was audible to even her. “Um, yes of course. Whatever you think is necessary.”

“You seem hesitant about the idea of her being locked up,” the sweaty-forehead manager commented.

“It’s just that . . .” He struggled for the words to come out. “She’s not insane. I Just think she’s distrustful of people.”

She snorted. The first part of his statement was very false. Oh, she was far from sane. She’d accepted that fact many years ago. It had been lost forever a long, long time ago.  

But for the second part of his statement, he was absolutely true. She didn’t trust anybody.

Not even herself.

She glanced at the clock. 11:45. If her the plan was to go off without a hitch, she needed to get into position soon, With a small sigh of regret, she moved away from the pillar and made her way towards the staircase. She left the champagne flute on the platter a servant was passing around. Behind her, his little inamorata was chastising him for not thinking the Phantom should have her head placed on a silver platter.

She made her way her way up the grand staircase, lifting the hem of her dress up so she could walk without fear of falling. She had no inkling on why women enjoyed wearing such cumbersome garments. Was it a way for the men to torment women?

Regardless if corsets could be considered as torture devices, she needed to be prepared now. She touched a raised part of the gilded wall and a panel slid back to reveal the finalized libretto. It was in her best handwriting, a task that had taken more than a day to perfect.

The crowd behind her hummed in excitement. It was mere minutes to the new year. As they watched the clocks in drunken excitement, she glided behind the large gold statue of a muse. The energy spiked to an unbearable level as the moment came closer with every second.

With an odd finality, the clock ticked into the new year. There were cheers all around, many glad to welcome a peaceful year after the last’s chaos. They were not going to get that; she made that dream impossible.

The gas-lights dimmed suddenly, causing an immediate sense of confusion and dread. She’d planned for the lights to go down after the stroke of midnight so as to confuse the patrons. As the protests grew louder with every moment, she stepped out of the shadow of the statue and stood on the top of the grand staircase.

It became eerily quiet. The looks of pure shock were extremely hilarious and she couldn’t help the twisted chuckle that came out of her throat. The sound of her shoes clacking against the marble sounded like gunshots in the quiet atrium.

“You thought I was gone?” She let out a high-pitched giggle. It was the laugh of a madwoman. “You honestly thought the  _ Phantom _ would disappear for good? How stupid you must feel.”

She was halfway down the staircase. “I have not made myself known not because I was gone—and some of you think I’d _ died! _ —but because I was perfecting my masterpiece! Yes, I am a composer as well.” She held up the libretto and the gold filigree title glinted in the limited light.

“I have a deal to make. You will perform my opera to my liking. I will be making sure that you follow  _ all _ of my stipulations throughout the work. If you don’t . . .” She let the threat hang.

“Well, let’s just say that you will be losing more than just a chandelier. Things that can’t be replaced.”

Now at the the bottom of the stairs, she threw down the libretto. It slid to one of the manager’s polished shoes. He lifted it up, hands shaking violently. She smirked underneath her mask. Her tricks and threats had worked. Perfect.

There was a commotion in the crowd as someone pushed through. The Phantom’s eyes widened as she realized exactly who had shouldered their way through the crowd.

She took a deep breath. It was  _ him _ .

Practically in a trance, they came close to each other. The rising clamor of the crowd hushed as they were enveloped in their own little reality. He was so close, so close that she could smell a faint trace of cologne. He looked different somehow; perhaps it was they way he opened up his shoulders.

There was a glint of metal underneath his vest, something thin and gold. It jangled with each erratic beat of his heart. She frowned and grabbed the dangling chain. The flimsy gold links snapped at only the slightest force. 

Her eyebrows raised in surprise. On the end of the chain was a ring. A woman’s ring. She stared down at it, realization souring in her stomach. It was a woman's signet ring. She knew nothing about the various crests of the upper class, but she knew exactly whose it was. _ De Changy _ . That little strumpet was promising herself to a man her family would most likely disown her for marrying. 

He looked up at her then, cerulean eyes swirling with a wide array of emotions. Desire pulsed underneath the shock of seeing her again after his treason. She could take him down to the bowels of the Opera right now—she was standing right on top of a large trapdoor in fact—but she wanted him to squirm.

“You will be mine once more,” she said. “An angel might not feel jealousy, but a phantom certainly can.”

And with a wicked smile, she stamped her foot on the correct tile and released the mechanism for the trapdoor. Smoke hissed into the air as the floor dropped from underneath her. Confusion ran rampant among the inebriated crowd as the smoke spread throughout the grand hall. Her laugh echoed against the damp stone walls as she fell down into the bowels of the Opera. She’d done it, she’d actually done it!

Her giddiness met an abrupt end as she landed on the padding she'd installed years ago. Unfortunately it had been worn down by time but her bustle seemed to absorb some of the shock. Huh. Perhaps the current fashions were somewhat useful.

She stood, not bothering to reposition the dress. Once she was back in her lair, the damn thing was coming off. Corset and all.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to see something different in the fandom and this came from that, I guess. The Phantom was kinda fun to write and I might write more with her.


End file.
